


Nightfall

by loweryi



Series: Drink Deep of Quietness [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Roach is there too, listen i don't know how to tag stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22810354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loweryi/pseuds/loweryi
Summary: The hours pass from dusk to nightfall, and traversing the snow proves difficult. Jaskier is succumbing to hypothermia, but he might not be the only one to fall prey to the night.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Drink Deep of Quietness [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639879
Comments: 21
Kudos: 360





	Nightfall

**Author's Note:**

> hi folks! wow! thank you all SO much for your response to Dusk. i've been hard at work on this one since then, as well as some paintings and playlists. see the end of the work for more links and thank you again for reading! <3

“Jaskier.” 

The bard mumbled a groggy acknowledgement from his seat behind the witcher. His arms were wound around the man’s waist, a new cloak shielding his back from the mid-winter wind. The red fox fur collar jostled in the breeze, and Geralt could not deny the convenience of having a sleepy bard function as a source of heat as they continued their journey through snowy forests in search of his quarry. 

As it stood now, Geralt led Roach along the muddy wagon trail at a slow pace. Where it wasn’t slush, it was thick snow, and the witcher took care avoiding any iced-over puddles or frozen mud. Geralt had taken pity on the bard—every part of the man was ill-equipped for the bitter cold that came with being this close to the Kaedweni border, in his attire as much as his demeanor. While the meager earnings that came with the contracts he had taken in the past month provided enough for them to eat, drink, and occasionally rent a room when the weather turned too miserable, it was still not enough to purchase another horse so that Jaskier could keep pace. 

Two days before, heavy snowfall had rendered the road impassable, and erased all tracks of the griffin Geralt had been tracking since the Mahakaman mountains. By dusk, fierce winds had whipped the ice and snow into enough of a frenzy that even Geralt’s leather armor had soaked through. Jaskier had become unresponsive by that point, his silk brocade about as much of a barrier against the weather as a sheet of parchment. He slumped against the witcher, his arms bound around Geralt’s waist so as to keep him upright. His lips were blue; his teeth had long stopped chattering as he succumbed to his hypothermia. Geralt steeled himself against the winds and pushed Roach forward, desperate to find shelter. After what felt like hours, they found solace in a single, flickering lantern shining through a distant window not yet buried under snow. 

Geralt had not seen any movement in the window as the horse trudged towards the cabin. There were a few other roofs poking out from behind tall snowdrifts, and the nearer to the village he got, he could begin to make out the yellow smoke rising from the chimneys. A sweet smell hovered in the air about the hamlet, delicate and almost imperceptible, but unmistakable to a witcher’s senses: cedar. The warm woody scent filled him with more hope than even the lantern had, and he urged Roach closer to the hovel. 

He carefully untied Jaskier’s wrists from around his waist and slid down from the saddle. The snow was up to his knees, and for a moment Geralt was grateful that his armor was already water-logged so that he didn’t have to endure the seeping cold again. Before he could even begin to remove the bard from his precarious position on the saddle, the door to the cottage swung open. 

“Well, get him inside! Come in, come in!” 

A short, doddering old woman held open the door, frantically waving the pair inside. 

“Take him, lie him down, I will see the horse to the stables. Now, child, before I get any older!” 

Geralt was holding the poet in his arms just inside the door as the woman pushed past him and out into the cold. He opened his mouth to protest, turning back to face their rescuer, just to watch her slam shut the door. 

They were alone. 

Dried mullein, coltsfoot, and lemon balm hung from the rafters of the homely cottage, with dozens more herbs in small bundles scattered throughout. A straw mat lay across from the roaring fire in the iron stove, a stoneware mug of some hot liquid sat beside a pillow made of ragged cloth. The wind howled and rattled the thin glass window but the cabin stood true against the gale, and with one final appraisal and no sense of ill will from the old woman or her home, the witcher relented, and laid his friend down upon the mat. 

Picking up the mug, Geralt sniffed at the liquid. It smelled of rosehips and something sweet...elderberries? He took a sip, and warmth flooded through him. He sighed, the tension in his head subsiding. Sitting on his knees, he unbuckled his belts and peeled off the sodden armor underneath, laying each piece to dry by the fire. 

He had just taken off his boots and set them aside when the old woman rushed back into the house, shutting the door with some effort as the wind pushed back against it. 

“She’s all safe in the stables now, your horse. Took off her saddle too. Bit of a walk, but I’ll show you the way when the weather calms.”

She walked towards him as she spoke, shaking off snow with each step. She had a cleft lip and kind brown eyes, her grey hair tightly gathered in a bun and tangled with equal parts of straw and leaves. 

Baba Galina, as Geralt was soon to find out, was the cunning woman of the small village they had stumbled upon. There were six homes total, the largest being the home of her daughter and son-in-law and their four children. It was less of a village and more of a familial homestead, and the matriarch healer was curt but attentive in her care towards Jaskier. She had run out into the blizzard twice more, first to fetch new clothes and then a bed-mat for Geralt. Once both men had been changed into dry clothes (Jaskier with some difficulty), and Geralt fed hot stew with fresh bread, the grandmother bid him a good night and left to stay at her daughter’s home. Jaskier lay unconscious throughout the night, draped in a cloak lined with fox fur, and Geralt slept beside him. 

* * *

The next morning, the cold sun shone mirror-bright on the snow. It was hardly past dawn, but Geralt awoke to a sound he hadn’t realized he’d been missing: Jaskier’s voice. It rang out boldly, but fit in well with the lilting songs of larks and swallows performing their morning chorus. The witcher opened his eyes and stared up at the herb-lined rafters. 

"And, sorry, what was the name of the town again? Berk?" asked Jaskier through what sounded like a mouthful of porridge.

"Buki, if you go northeast," said Baba Galina. She sawed into some bread, its fresh crust cracking under the knife.

Geralt breathed deep. The cabin, while small, did wonders to amplify the amazing smells of a fresh cooked meal and dried herbs. 

"Go southeast, to the Pontar, you'll hit Flotsam. Not sure where you were meant to be headed in this weather, but you’ve got maybe two days of clear travel." There was a sound of something clattering—bones. Geralt sat up on his elbows and watched as the village witch rearranged some small femurs on a simple white handkerchief. "Make that two and a half," she added. 

The grandmother met Geralt's eye then and smiled, and, noticing her attention drawn elsewhere, Jaskier turned around.

"Ah, and the hero awakens!" he proclaimed, raising his arms up in a triumphant gesture. The bowl he held in his right hand tilted, and a fat glob of porridge splattered down onto his knee. "Shit." 

Geralt allowed himself a small smile. They had survived, Jaskier was back to his usual antics, and they had a hopeful forecast. He could afford a moment of respite. He stretched and cracked his back, standing slowly. 

"Thank you for your hospitality," he said, taking a seat at the table. "Without your help I'm not sure how we'd have made it through the night."

The woman waved a hand dismissively, and busied herself with preparing breakfast for the witcher. She spooned a healthy amount of porridge into a beautiful clay bowl, dotted and lined in intricate patterns. She drizzled honey liberally upon the kasha before plopping in a chunk of dark rye bread and handing it to Geralt. 

While eating, Geralt again had the wise woman explain their location, and with a more complete mental map, he could chart their course. They would travel northways to Buki, and perhaps chance upon the griffin. If not, well, there would be more contracts on the way to Kaer Morhen, surely. 

"And what awaits you there, Wolf?" asked Galina, sipping at her tea. They had switched to tea, now, and Baba Galina would not hear of them leaving until they had all sat and enjoyed it thoroughly. The majority of the dishes in her home were earthenware, but in the case of having guests for tea, Galina had insisted upon the men using two tea glasses set in metal holders, etched with designs of running horses and waving willow branches. 

"Family," answered Geralt simply. Jaskier raised an eyebrow but, remarkably, said nothing. The cunning woman nodded sagely in response. 

When breakfast was done, Baba Galina insisted on gifting them with supplies for the road. She wrapped a loaf of bread and smoked kielbasa carefully in cloth, as well as a few pouches of herbs for tea and protection. These she handed to Geralt, and as he was putting on his armor, she turned her attention to Jaskier. 

“There are three things you need to face the wind,” Baba Galina said, folding the fox-fur cloak thrice over and shoving it into Jaskier’s arms. “Fur, courage, and vodka.” 

At this, she procured a corked bottle of, presumably, undiluted samagon. She placed it on top of the cloak and patted the bard on the cheek. 

"You take care of him, yes? Sing his praises, and your own." 

Jaskier flushed at this but recovered admirably. "Singing praises is what I do best, Baba Galina, and if it's anyone's I'll be singing, it'll be yours." He shifted the items he held to one hand, and bowed low so as to take her hand in his and place a kiss upon it. 

In any other instance, Geralt would have snorted at the gesture. It wasn’t often that the witcher truly felt indebted, but in this case, he was desperately racking his brain as to how he could repay the good witch.

“Would you take coin?” he asked her, tightening the straps that held his swords. 

Their entire stay the woman had been all smiles, but at this, she sneered. “No, witcher, keep your coin,” she said, crossing her arms. When he opened his mouth to protest, she cut him off. “No, and it would be rude to ask a third time. Hospitality is given knowing that someday it might be returned in kind. That is all I ask.” 

Geralt nodded. "Then you have my sincere gratitude, ma'am." 

Baba Galina smiled at him, the crows feet by her eyes framing her joyful face. "And you, Witcher, have mine. Now," she said, clapping her hands together in finality, "Bogdan has prepared your horse, and he will see you to the stables." She waddled over to the door of the cottage, and after giving each man a warm hug, ushered them out into the frozen morning. 

Her son-in-law stood in a thick fur coat by a footpath leading towards a distant barn. He nodded at the duo and began guiding them to the building. They walked single file, silent. The cunning woman had been right about the weather—the sky was a perfect blue, without a cloud in sight. 

When they arrived at the barn, Roach was already tacked up save for her bridle, which was slung on a hook nearby so that the horse could eat without difficulty. As such, she was gladly indulging in a trough filled with hay. Geralt walked over to her, gently patting her on the neck and cheek to greet her. She let out a snort in response. 

Having double checked all their supplies, Geralt fitted Roach with the bridle and Jaskier slung the new cloak over his shoulders. Once the two men were situated on the saddle, Bogdan opened up both barn doors and gestured to the snowy field before them. 

"Good hunting, Witcher."

* * *

That had been two days ago. Two days since they had experienced warmth and comfort and hospitality the likes of which could not be rivaled by a king. As Jaskier dozed against him, Geralt thought back on the woman and her family, and were he a praying man, he would have whispered them one on the wind. 

By the wise woman’s predictions, after tonight they would still have half the day tomorrow to make it to Buki. Once in town, the storm might roll over them, but at the very least they would have a roof over their heads and a stable for Roach. From there, they could recuperate and chart a course for Kaer Morhen. 

“Why _are_ we going to Kaer Morhen anyway?” Jaskier had asked one morning at the very start of their trip. 

Gerat had snorted a laugh in response. “It’s what witchers do. We winter at Kaer Morhen. By now it’s almost...a family tradition.” He paused before saying “family,” but despite his hesitation, he knew the truth was clear. It was a family at Kaer Morhen, _his_ family, or at least the closest he’d ever get to one. Knowing that, no storm or wind could keep him from bringing Jaskier along to meet the other witchers, and to see his home. 

“Jaskier,” he repeated, attempting to wake the sleeping bard. Twilight had bathed the world in deep blue hues, and the awning of trees above as they rode into the woods served only to darken the road ahead. Geralt had no trouble seeing–he had taken a dose of Cat potion to prepare for traveling through the night–but he would prefer to have Jaskier awake and functioning in case of any emergencies. 

“Jaskier!” 

The bard started, jerking backwards in the saddle. “I’m awake!” he exclaimed, and were it not for the witcher quickly reaching down to take Jaskier’s hands in his own, the bard surely would have fallen off. 

“Careful,” said Geralt, letting go with one hand to take back the reins. With the other he kept his grip on the bard’s hands, now wrapped around his waist again; even through his leather gloves, he could feel how cold Jaskier was. The poet said nothing, though he made no attempt to move. 

“Just wanted you to be awake as night falls. Might need an extra pair of eyes.” 

Jaskier interrupted his own yawn with a breathy laugh. “What, and you think mine would help?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh.” Jaskier shifted from side to side in the saddle, and rolled his shoulders to shake away any last vestiges of sleep. “Alright then.” Geralt heard a hint of something in his voice–pride, perhaps.

Roach waded onwards in the deep snow, and eventually Geralt let go of Jaskier’s hands in order to pull out a torch and light it. The flickering glow didn't illuminate much, but was enough to navigate around fallen tree limbs blocking the forest path. They continued in this way until all the world was black, and save for the torchlight, even the white snow blended into the darkness. 

Eventually, when the path ahead vanished altogether, Geralt let out a heavy sigh. 

"We'll camp for the night. Think I hear water to our right, but we'll have to walk Roach through the trees." 

He passed the torch back to Jaskier and slid down from the saddle. The snow cushioned his landing, and aside from their heartbeats and breathing, the world was still. He took the torch back and once Jaskier had also jumped down, Geralt led Roach by the reins into the forest. The gentle sound of water lapping against a distant shore was his only compass in the night, and once the crunching of their footsteps had blended into the background of his senses, it led him true. 

Geralt estimated it to be around midnight when they finally reached the pond. The majority of it was iced over, but its edges had cracked and melted in the morning sunlight. With a quick burst of Igni, Geralt melted through a patch of snow and took to setting up a rudimentary camp. 

"Jaskier, need you to unpack the supplies," he instructed between hefting armfuls of snow away from the center ring. What he couldn't lift, he melted away, and within a few minutes, he had created a small clearing with two-foot snow walls all around, with a taller wall where the fire pit itself would be. It would keep the heat in and reflect it back at them, providing them with enough warmth to last the night. This had been their strategy last night as well, and while it was no cozy cottage, it sufficed.

With the supplies unloaded and placed in the sodden grass, Geralt set off to the surrounding area with Jaskier in tow to collect firewood. Wet though they were, the branches felled by the snowstorm were plentiful, and with a few trips between the campsite and the forest's edge, they had managed to collect enough to last the night. 

"Sooo," Jaskier said through shivers, watching Geralt break the larger branches down to a more manageable size, "by your estimate, how much longer until Buki? Just, you know, to have an idea of things. Not that travel doesn’t agree with me–kind of difficult to be a traveling bard without the travel bit–but it would be nice to have a timeframe.” As he spoke, he paced the perimeter of the camp, stopping only to blow onto his hands for warmth. 

Geralt hummed in response, focusing now on digging a small pit for the fire. A handful of birch bark and twigs sat in the center, and he surrounded the pile carefully with larger and larger sticks until he had built up enough of a structure. With a decisive cast of Igni at the tinder in the middle, the construction soon erupted into comforting flames. Geralt leaned a few larger logs diagonally across the fire and watched as it licked upwards hungrily. 

"Oh, _finally_." Jaskier all but skipped over to the fire, crouched down beside it and held out his hands. He teased the outermost flames with his fingertips, reveling in the heat. "You never cease to amaze, Geralt. Five minutes in a snowy hell and you've managed to make a rather charming and hospitable camp. Now all we need is some food, drink, and, of course, music, and all the day's struggles shall melt away with the snow!" 

“Hm.” 

Geralt couldn’t help but smile at the poet’s unbridled joy at the fire, and he left him to sit and warm up while he tended to the other necessities. Jaskier had managed to remove the bags and saddle from Roach, and tied her by the reins to a small sapling. To his surprise, Geralt found that the bard had also scuffed away a good portion of snow to reveal the grass underneath–upon which a grateful Roach was grazing. 

He patted his horse on the side and gathered up the sack which held their necessary cooking supplies. They still had some kielbasa and bread left over from Galina’s hospitality, and earlier in the day Geralt had spied a ptarmigan settled neatly in the snow. Were it not for the glint of its eyes in the harsh sun, the bird would have blended in perfectly against the blanket of white. Instead, with the same speed as if he had been facing a beast, he readied his crossbow and fired. The bird fell lifeless, its blood thawing the snow. Jaskier had stayed quiet, but unlike the witcher, his face betrayed all emotions. Geralt did his best to ignore the man’s despondent pout as he collected the bird and, as luck would have it, its nest of eggs. Now, in the bitter frost of midnight, there was no greater comfort than the thought of a hot meal with fresh meat. 

They divided the work silently, naturally, an ease and comfort built from many nights together. Geralt took his place at the fire, melting a lump of tallow in a cast iron pan over a bed of coals, and Jaskier sat nearby, plucking at his lute. The soft melody found its place effortlessly among the creaking of the trees and the ice on the lake, and Geralt was left feeling warmed by more than just the heat of the flames. It was good, this life on the road, but it was better with company. 

He made quick work of plucking and quartering the grouse, cutting strips off the bones. A few times he noticed the bard shift to look over at the meal, changing the tempo of his song to show his impatience. Geralt merely shook his head, instead taking his time in cracking the eggs into the skillet, letting the sizzling accompany Jaskier's performance in the night. 

When the meat cooked through, Geralt took the pan off the coals, placing it on the far side of the fire. Jaskier leapt up, lute still in hand. 

"Geralt, I know you're aware I'm not a particularly patient person, and if you tell me that it needs to _cool_ now I swear I—"

"Shh."

Geralt stood up swiftly, hand already on his silver sword. To Jaskier’s credit, he shut up instantly, and Geralt strained to hear the distant sounds in the night. With no more pops from the oil in the pan, no more gentle strings and hums lulling him into comfort, another noise rang out in the night with a sharp and dangerous percussion. It was drawing nearer, and was unmistakable to the seasoned witcher. The irregular crunching of snow, the snap of branches underfoot, a wheezing and guttural breathing: all the signs were there.

"Rotfiends. Must have been drawn by the smell of the bird, or another death nearby. Jaskier, you should—"

A shrill, warbling scream pierced the stillness of the forest, and Geralt raised his voice over the interruption.

" _Run_." 

The creature burst through the brush and snow, rotting flesh dangling from its blackened fingertips. Its jowls bubbled as it shrieked, strands of green mucus flying from its mouth and onto Jaskier.

Jaskier. 

He was frozen in place, clutching his lute in his hands and staring at the beast with his mouth open in a silent song of terror. 

"Move, Jaskier!" Geralt yelled, hoping to spur the bard into fleeing. Another rotfiend was stumbling out behind its companion, and the witcher charged. Three steps, two, and then, as he ran his sword through the gut of the putrid beast, the poet did the unthinkable. He raised his lute over his head and brought it down upon the necrophage, _hard_. 

Geralt had no time to warn the bard of what came next. The rotfiend gurgled, spat and croaked, a viscous bile oozing from its gut-wound and burbling out its retching mouth. With his reflexes, he could certainly dodge the impending explosion, but Jaskier? Doubtful. Against all instinct, Geralt dropped his sword and spun on his heels to face the bard. He wrapped his arms around him just in time for the gagging to reach a crescendo, and with a final wail the rotfiend burst apart. Thick chunks of flesh splattered against Geralt's back, and the force of the blast pushed him forward, but he stood his ground. A ringing filled his ears, sharp like a dagger pressing through his temples. He grunted, woozy, and began to release his grip on Jaskier. He didn't hear the sputtering of the second rotfiend.

He saw Jaskier's mouth form his name, saw his blue eyes widen in a desperate horror. Jaskier struggled with his cloak, wrapping it quickly around his lute before taking a step back and throwing the instrument behind him into the snow. Geralt’s head throbbed in time with his raised pulse as he realized, too late, that there had only been one explosion, not two. The ground shook, slabs of meat colliding with his legs and back and head, and he fell forward into blackness. 

  
  


* * *

“Geralt?” 

Jaskier coughed, the stench of blood and decay thick in the air. His head was pounding, and the smell and pain made him gag. It was very convenient that they hadn’t gotten to eat their meal, else he was sure he would have added to the bile pooling around him. 

He lay prone, that much he was sure of, with a heavy weight upon his chest. He didn’t hear any sounds of fighting, so either Geralt and the beasts had moved elsewhere or he was dead. Taking his chances, he opened his eyes. 

The witcher lay on top of him, unconscious and...bleeding? Was that Geralt’s blood, or the necrophage's? Jaskier supposed it didn’t make a difference, as the once-pristine snow around their camp was equally covered in blood, pus, and various other juices. He groaned, forcing down another wave of nausea. 

“Geralt?” He tried again. 

The witcher didn't respond, and Jaskier steeled himself against an unbidden wave of panic. He took a deep breath in through his nose, and with some effort, he pushed himself up on his elbows. At this angle, he could tell that Geralt was indeed breathing, which in turn made him sigh in relief. The battle was won, and while he wasn't useful in the thick of things, he could at least put himself to work in cleaning up the mess. He had no appetite now, of course, but perhaps even the food was still salvageable for a future meal. 

With a grunt, he heaved himself upwards, sliding out slightly from under Geralt's limp form. Even out cold, the man was formidable, and after a fair amount of frantic scrambling and the bitter realization that there was no way his beautiful teal doublet would be emerging unscathed, he freed himself. He shivered, shaking off the snow and clammy mud that had slid into his sleeves. 

"Right," he said to no one in particular, though he couldn't deny the faint hope in his heart that Geralt would spring up any second to harp on him for his monologuing. When no response came, he carried on. 

"Right. Move Geralt out of the way, toss away the meat...bits...and add more wood to the fire. It's as good a place to start as any, right?" 

Roach nickered from off to his left, and Jaskier felt a little less alone, just for a moment. The horse was there, and she was fine, and while she certainly was making a lot of noises, that’s what horses did. They made noise. They scuffed their feet, and they huffed, and they certainly did rear up from time to time. They reared up, they snorted loudly, and they shrieked as though the very specter of death itself was materializing before them.

Shit.

A third rotfiend sputtered and croaked near where Roach was tied, and the horse was panicking. She kicked and yanked at the leather keeping her rooted to the spot and her screams sounded so desperate and pleading that Jaskier found himself yelling to the creature before he could stop himself for the sake of self-preservation. 

“Hey! You! You...dripping monstrosity! Leave the horse alone!” 

The momentary courage that had swelled in his heart fled the moment the aberration turned to face him. Its eyes were sunken, black, and beady, and the sinuous flesh along its body pulsed and rippled with every jittering step. The exposed musculature shone in the firelight, equal parts mucus and frost reflecting back the orange glow. The rotfiend lost interest in the flailing horse, and Jaskier felt trapped like a bug under a pin when the beast hobbled towards him with rapt attention. 

With each step its pace quickened, its cavernous mouth falling open in a howl. Jaskier felt panic—or perhaps bile—rising in his throat. He forced his frozen feet to move, running to Geralt’s unconscious form and picking up the sword that fell beside him. It was coated in the exploded chunks of flesh, slick with fluids and blood, but the silver blade was the only hope Jaskier had. The beast was lunging forward, sprinting with an irregular limp, its clawed hands flailing wildly through the air. It was so close, the foul pall of decay burned his lungs as he inhaled. He tried desperately to calm his breaths, the weight of the silver sword shaking in his grasp. The bard waited three seconds, each one more agonizingly slow than the next, until he took one more breath in and _swung._

The flat of the sword collided with the creature’s stomach, hitting a large pustule and bursting it with a _pop_. It stood in shock, burbling, and Jaskier dropped the sword in terror. The pimply thing looked down at the clattering blade and stood transfixed a moment longer while the bard lurched away to put more space between himself and his imminent demise. 

"Think, Julian, _think_!" he said aloud, searching the campsite for something _, anything_ he could use to save himself. There was the cast iron pan they'd used for dinner–sturdy, but Jaskier doubted his own strength with the thing, nevermind the waste that’d come with throwing away their dinner. He could try throwing a log from the fire, but if he missed, it'd sizzle out on the snow and leave him helpless yet again. But then:

The vodka. 

Baba Galina’s homebrew sat at the fire’s edge, inconspicuous in its earthenware bottle. The rotfiend had looked back up at Jaskier with a sickening belch, its murderous interest renewed given the bard’s rushing about the campsite. He only had the one chance. 

He all but threw himself across the clearing, diving along the muddied, bloodied grass. He spared a fleeting thought of regret towards his now-ruined outfit as he skidded towards the fire’s edge, frozen mud lodging itself down his shirt. He could hear the necrophage’s labored breathing directly behind him, so the moment he wrapped one hand around the bottle, he uncorked it with the other. Whirling around, back to the flames, he hurled the bottle at the creature. It shattered into pieces, dousing the rotfiend with the acrid liquor. 

The beast yowled, clawing at its sloughing flesh in anguish. Its open sores and boils seemed to froth in the liquid, and Jaskier grinned. Without thinking, he grabbed a branch from the fire. His hand burned and he hissed in pain, despite holding on to the coal-dark side of the stick. The other end burned brilliantly in the night, and with a confidence that could only have stemmed from adrenaline, he pitched it at the rotfiend. 

If the noises the beast had been making before were unsettling, the cacophony of screams it emitted now was enough to make Jaskier cover his ears with his hands. It roared with rage and torment, the pustules covering its body popping in the rising flames. Ragged flesh melted around bare muscle and sinew, burning through to the bone. The rotfiend staggered backwards, flailing its arms and clawing at its boiling face as the fire spread upon its body. Amidst the stumbling and screeching, Jaskier did not notice until it was too late that the beast stopped directly over Geralt. Bubbling and swelling, the creature choked on its rot and with one final, piercing cry, exploded. 

“Well,” Jaskier said after a moment, rising slowly from where he was sprawled out by the fire, “if he was on the verge of waking up, he certainly isn’t now.” His trousers and doublet were soaked through with all manner of mud and filth, his palm was raw and pulsing. He picked up a handful of snow and held it to his burn, reveling in the sudden quiet of the night. The fire crackled lightly beside him, all of its prior all-consuming power nothing but a memory preserved in the chunks of rotfiend scattered about the camp. Jaskier shivered. Adrenaline coursed through him, and with the source of panic gone, he was left with an anxious energy to do _something_.

“I suppose I should change,” he said to the wind. Somewhere along the way his new fox-fur cloak must have fallen away, lost in the chaos of the fight. In fact, thinking back on that heated moment, he had thrown his lute aside to save it, wrapped in the witch’s gift. He shuddered to think of his poor lute now, laying buried somewhere in the snow, its shining rosewood backboard most likely cracked from being used as a club. All concern for his hand and countenance left him as he rushed to where he’d been standing earlier and dove through the snow to find the instrument. 

After a moment of scrabbling in the snow, he held the bundle in his hands and delicately unwrapped the snow-soaked cloak from around the lute. He turned it around, cradling it as if it were a child, and was surprised to find it in near perfect condition. Aside from a wet stain where it had collided with the rotfiend’s pus-filled boils, the lute was unharmed, its strings intact even if out of tune. 

Jaskier sighed in relief. Instinctively, he spoke as though to Geralt. 

“You see? Lutes can be handy in a pinch!” He laughed with triumph, his joy answered only by a nicker from Roach. 

Geralt, of course, said nothing. 

“Shit.” Jaskier felt the panic coil tightly in his stomach, as though it had never truly left. 

Taking care to re-wrap the lute and set it by a less disgusting area around the fire, Jaskier then moved to Geralt’s side, kneeling back in the muck. 

“What am I supposed to do with you, hm?” He chewed on his lower lip. “You’re the one who knows how to deal with these sorts of situations. Not me.” 

He let out a deep sigh. At least the witcher was alive, so _eventually_ he was bound to wake up and know what to do. Although…

Jaskier held his unburned hand over Geralt’s mouth and waited. After a moment, he felt the warmth of Geralt’s exhale against his palm and sighed in relief. The witcher was definitely alive, and Jaskier felt a little silly for ever doubting that fact. It was _Geralt_ . What were three exploding rotfiends against _him_?

The bard stood up, overwhelmed with sudden conviction. 

“Well, I _certainly_ am not going to just let you lie there in all this filth until you wake up,” he said to the man. “You may act boorish but you’re no pig.” 

Jaskier busied himself then with what cleanup he could muster. First, he fetched the bedrolls and blankets from their supplies and spread them out on the far side of the fire, where the ground was relatively uncontaminated by the rotfiend remains. Once he’d set up a cozy bed, he tackled the task of dragging the unconscious witcher to lay where he wouldn’t be in a puddle of carrion. He only succeeded in moving Geralt by propping him upright against his knees, before wrapping an arm under each of his and pulling him backwards. After a few struggling steps–who would have guessed an unconscious witcher could be _this_ heavy–Jaskier only succeeded in slipping in the slush and landing gracelessly on his ass. Geralt flopped against the bard’s legs as he stumbled, and despite his own pains and frustrations, Jaskier was at the very least grateful that he was able to provide a cushion to prevent Geralt’s head from hitting the ground, thereby avoiding any further damage to the witcher’s faculties. Digging his heels into the mud, Jaskier finally succeeded in lugging the witcher to his bedroll.

Despite the added effort, he took his time lowering the man gently to the ground, and placed his rolled up cloak beneath his head for comfort. 

“Your hair’s disgusting, by the way,” he told the witcher. Geralt looked remarkably peaceful in his current state, splattered with blood and mud and grime. “We’ll fix that in a moment,” he added gently, patting the man on the cheek, “though I doubt you’ll notice the difference.” He sat a moment longer by his friend’s side, catching his breath from the long haul. 

* * *

Jaskier was never one to shy away from giving Geralt the attention and affection he believed the man deserved. For all his gruffness, the man was a beacon of humility in an otherwise self-obsessed world. Even Jaskier found himself second guessing his actions at times, realizing with some shame that it was unbecoming to be selfishly impulsive in a moment where one could choose to be self-sacrificing over self-serving. He never felt any judgment from the witcher; in fact, he felt nothing but acceptance from the man, but this in turn led the bard to realize that Geralt often viewed him in much the same way that he viewed the general populace, and that realization saddled him with a painful, ever-present nausea. Self-reflection often hits hard, especially when one has been willfully blind. 

It stung most clearly on a bitter and miserable day, where the rain pelted down like pins from the sky. They had been passing through a small town and, despite his grumbling, Geralt allowed Jaskier to ride beside him on Roach. Beyond that, the man had retrieved a waxed leather buckskin, and allowed Jaskier to wrap his lute in the material so as to keep it dry. All this had been proffered without a word, and Jaskier was certainly not one to argue. Basking in the warmth emanating from the man at the reigns, and enjoying the safety and comfort that came with traveling with the witcher, he was jarred from his reverie when Geralt halted Roach and disentangled himself from the bard. With nothing more than a mumbled command to stay put, he ran off into the downpour. They were on the outskirts of town, and Jaskier felt terribly out of place in the middle of the muddy road. Geralt had vanished into the fog and rain, and all had been still. 

Then, thunder.

No, not thunder...the sound was too metallic, too sharp, and Jaskier spun around in search of it. Among the entrance to the woods off to the left, Geralt was whirling his iron blade against a group of bandits. He traded them blow for blow, the noise muffled in the rain. 

Jaskier spurred Roach forward, edging towards the fight. He knew better than to get too close, but how was he supposed to spin tales of battles and swordplay without seeing the witcher best his opponents firsthand? He was slowly getting used to all the gory details, for better or worse, and so he walked the mare closer. 

Geralt cut down two men with ease, their blood pooling in the leaf litter. The remaining three held their ground at a distance, their faces betraying their fear. When the witcher raised his sword against them, as though on cue, they turned heel and ran. Jaskier heard the witcher snarl, and scooted back in the saddle as Geralt sprinted over to his horse and jumped into his seat, swift and catlike. 

“They’ll have a camp,” was the only explanation he offered to the bard, and Jaskier held an arm over his eyes as they rode into the rain. Roach sprayed wet globs of dirt to the side as she weaved through the trees, and Geralt expertly skidded her to a halt along the side of the trail. He sniffed the air, mouth open slightly so as to better catch the scent in the rain. 

“This way.”

They walked along, and sure enough, they found a makeshift camp of wet canvas and the embers of a recent fire. Geralt slid down from Roach once more. 

Jaskier wasn’t sure what the witcher was planning, standing there sodden in the storm. He glanced around the camp, worried about an ambush, but Geralt remained steadfast. 

After minutes of an uneasy silence, broken only by the dripping leaves and Roach huffing after her gallop, Geralt stalked back to the horse and set to work untying a satchel full of food. 

It wasn’t until he sat the bag down in the center of one of the drenched canvas tents did Jaskier realize what he was doing. 

“Geralt, that’s our–”

“Day old bread and vegetables. Enough for a weak soup, at best.”

“Yes, but–”

Geralt hoisted himself back onto the horse and guided her away from the camp. 

“You can’t smell hunger, but you can see desperation.”

Jaskier stopped his protest, wound his arms around the witcher’s waist, and waited for further explanation as they continued in the rain. 

“One had a gimp leg. Another gout. Veterans or the disabled, on the fringes.” The bard opened his mouth to argue, but was cut off once again. “We’ll find more food–your pretty voice will make sure of that. They don’t have that luxury.” 

He spoke curt and low, and his words were scathing. They rode the remainder of the day in silence, and later that night when they took shelter in a damp cave, Jaskier gazed across the fire at the witcher and beheld him in awe.

* * *

Filthy though he was now, Jaskier could not see the witcher in any other light. And so, once he had taken a fallen pine bough and brushed as many of the fetid chunks off to a distant side and covered them in snow, he fetched their cauldron and filled it with snow to melt. The camp looked marginally better, and certainly smelled less foul, though the same could not be said for either of them. Of the trio, only Roach had escaped unscathed, and for that small victory, Jaskier was grateful. Washing an unconscious witcher was still an easier task than bathing a horse–at least, he _hoped._

As the snow melted in the little iron pot, Jaskier had fetched some rags that he’d squirreled away into his own supplies. Though Geralt was relatively content with being squalid—“I’m just going to get bloody again, Jaskier!” he’d often proclaim—the bard figured there was no better time than when the witcher was out cold to do his best to clean the rotfiend’s remnants away. 

Removing his pauldrons was simple enough, and the various belts and pouches that then came undone were set aside near the fire to dry, though not close enough to get warped in the process. The buckles and straps of the leather cuirass proved difficult, slimy as they were, but with considerable care Jaskier managed to pry the slick armor off of the man. Dragging Geralt’s body over to the cleaner side of the fire had been a struggle on its own, but that was nothing compared to the maneuvering and positioning he had to do to heft one half of the witcher up to peel away the armor while the other half hung limply to the side. 

“You’re not making this any _easier,_ you know,” said Jaskier. He kneeled upon the bedroll, the pot of warm water beside him, Geralt’s head now resting on his lap. The witcher was in his loose black undershirt, the shining medallion of the wolf glimmering upon his chest. He breathed deep and slow, and Jaskier all but forgot about the chaos of the fight. Despite the muck tangled among his hair, it shone bright like the moon upon the snow.

Jaskier sighed through his nose. “You’re really quite handsome, Geralt. I’m sure you _must_ know, otherwise you wouldn’t get away with half the attitude you’ve got.” He dipped one of the washrags in the warm water and wrung it out. He’d helped Geralt wash his hair before of course, helped bathe him and get him clean and presentable when meeting with anyone who demanded such appearances. Yet there was something about this moment that struck Jaskier as odd. He felt a foreign, uncomfortable weight settle in his throat and when he tried to swallow it away, it remained. In an effort to pointedly ignore it, he began wiping away at the dirt on Geralt’s face. 

There was dried blood in a gash on his forehead, and mucus strung across his eyebrows that had crusted in the cold. Jaskier dabbed gingerly at the cut, moving across to the scar over Geralt’s left eye. 

“I’m sure it must get boring, to be asked so often about your scars. To have lovers and strangers alike see you as a sum of your parts.” The bard laughed quietly, dipping the rag back in the water and wringing it out. “I know I often aggravate you with my incessant badgering.” 

He continued lightly running the cloth across the dried dirt and blood on the witcher’s face, softening it until he could wash the grime away. With each pass of the washrag, Jaskier noticed more details that had previously escaped his admiration: the joyful, subtle crow’s feet at the eyes of a man who insisted that he was emotionless, that smiling eluded him; the concern etched permanently as a crease in the brow of someone who maintained he cared for little else besides money and the next bounty. Then again, it wasn’t as though Geralt allowed him such close scrutiny under normal circumstances. Jaskier ran his thumb over the lower half of the scar beneath his eye, ghosting over the knitted skin as though he were disturbing a spiderweb. 

“But can you blame us?” he whispered, cupping a hand against the witcher’s jaw, turning his head slightly to wash along his neck. “Can you blame the gawking crowd for witnessing your spectacle?” 

Jaskier washed off the rag once more, then dumped out the lukewarm water off to the side. He leaned far backwards–carefully, so as to not disturb the witcher’s repose–to scrape some more snow into the pot, then placed it back by the fire to melt. As he waited, he brushed his knuckles against Geralt’s salt-and-pepper stubble and sighed, despite himself. “Me, of all people, getting poetic?” he said, tracing the witcher’s jawline. “Who’d expect such a thing?” 

He laughed under his breath and set to detangling Geralt’s hair. It gleamed silver in the firelight. Even with the layers of rotfiend filth dirtying it, Jaskier managed to make it look somewhat presentable, though he knew he could not wash it in this winter cold; he wasn’t going to douse a sleeping man’s head with water and leave him to freeze. 

With that finished to the best of his ability, he went back to the warmed water and set about cleaning the witcher’s bloodstained arms. He’d had his sleeves rolled up and even with the leather gloves he’d been wearing, a fair amount of spatter had gotten onto his forearms. Jaskier wet the rag and scrubbed the stains away. First the left arm, then the right, and as he finished cleaning away the grime he found himself holding Geralt’s hand in his own. Curious, he slid his palm against the witcher’s, comparing their hands. Every part of Geralt told a story, this he already knew, but to _see_ it so closely…

There were wire-thin scars along his knuckles, nicks from swordplay or some raking talons, perhaps. His hands were rough like his leather armor, worn and callused from a life of sweat and toil. Jaskier fitted his palm to the witcher’s and marveled at the difference; comparatively, his hands were like that of a prince’s, smooth and deprived of a life well lived. No amount of flowery words and garish dress could disguise the hollowness in his chest, or the terror of his vapid and uninspiring life breathing down his neck and reminding him that, despite all his posturing, he was a fraud with nothing more to his name than a fancy title and some entertaining lies. He’d never really considered the magnitude of the phrase “living one’s truth” until he saddled up with Geralt, and since then, he found it difficult to tear his eyes and attention away from the witcher for more reasons than he expected. 

It was a marvelous thing, really, to bear witness to someone so infallibly oriented with reality. Geralt seemed simple to most observers, a brutish demonstration of mutation in the guise of a man. He was brusque, covered in scars and wearing an expression that dared strangers to stay away, and yet, they came to him regardless. They came to him bearing their troubles and their payments, and found that he’d do his best to help with the former regardless of the latter. The witcher walked with purpose, and what he’d described to Jaskier as the Path felt like more than just the taking of contracts and money. Every action and choice felt deliberate, like the witcher was playing a game of chess with chaos itself. Jaskier noticed a burgeoning envy in his heart as he traveled more with the man, and suddenly his worldly travels seemed like a child posturing at a game they didn’t understand—a boy’s desperate bid at finding some meaning. 

Jaskier wrung out the rag and once more dipped it in the warm water. He carefully ran it along the wolf’s medallion, wiping out the flecks of blood. Tucking the medallion back underneath Geralt’s shirt, he hesitated. He held his hand along the witcher’s chest a moment longer, hovered it over the man’s beating heart and then placed his palm softly down. The feeling was grounding, secure, and Jaskier let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The terror of the fight, the uncertainties of the weather and the woods, none of that mattered. The witcher breathed deep and steady, and Jaskier knew he was safe. The envy that bloomed within him, he knew, had turned to something different, something _else,_ something that he recognized and usually welcomed like an old friend, but in this moment…

In the distance, a loon cried, and its haunting song shattered the stillness of the night. 

Jaskier withdrew his hand. 

“The burn, you know,” he mumbled. “Still tender.” 

* * *

When Geralt woke, he was immediately cognizant of three things: his head ached worse than after a night of nonstop drinking; the air had an acrid, burnt taste to it; and lastly, he was lying upon something rather soft. 

He opened his eyes slowly, the foggy pain in his head biding him to take his time, and found himself looking up Jaskier’s worried face. 

“Ah,” said the bard, a softness in his tone that Geralt couldn’t quite place, “the hero awakens.” His cornflower blue eyes shone gold in the firelight. 

Blinking to clear his vision, Geralt took stock of his surroundings. His head rested upon Jaskier’s lap, and they were both now closer to the river and facing the forest. The fire burned bright enough that Geralt couldn’t make out what lay on the other side. 

“And the Rotfiends?” he asked, and cleared his throat. He felt like shit, but he was warm, in no small part due to the fact that the bard’s new cloak was now draped over him. 

“Vanquished, all three. By yours truly, of course!” Jaskier proclaimed. _There_ was the pride Geralt was used to hearing in his voice, the dramatics that accompanied all his moods. 

“Of course,” affirmed Geralt, shutting his eyes again. The corners of his lips tugged into a smile as he took a deep breath in. There had been a palpable tension in the air when he’d awoken, a lingering sort of unease. The moment he’d spoken, that feeling had evaporated. 

The bard had been _worried_ for him. 

Granted, he was surprised at his own oversight in the fight. Rotfiends weren’t particularly difficult fiends to deal with, and to think he’d been bested by two was unsettling. His attention should have been more attuned, and he made a note to be more careful. Another oversight like that, and Jaskier could have been injured. 

“Wait,” he said, opening his eyes. “Three?”

The bard stopped scribbling in his book. He grinned.

“ _Three_. After you so nobly sacrificed yourself for my safety–not that I needed the help–there was a third that emerged from the woods. And it was, dare I say, _swiftly_ dealt with.” 

Geralt sat up quickly, and while he’d certainly been in worse conditions before, he realized with an ache that the rotfiend’s explosions had bruised more than his ego. 

He cast an appraising eye about the camp. The signs of a battle were evident: hasty tracks in the snow from where the two necrophages had originally emerged, the deep indents in the snow where he’d fallen, and where the liquids from the burst creatures had seeped in. Sure enough, a clear trail led from their center of camp off to where Roach had originally been tethered. Now she was tied much nearer to the fire, and yet again the bard had kicked away a patch of snow to allow her some access to the wilted grass beneath. As for the camp itself, he noticed that Jaskier had indeed put some effort into tidying up. Any larger fleshy bits were discarded from the main clearing, and all that remained was the large patch of charred grass opposite of where they sat. A caustic odor still hung about, reminiscent of burnt and rotten eggs, but Geralt noticed that half of the pan of grouse had been eaten; the remaining half remained in the pan, placed near enough to the fire to keep it warm. Their belongings were neatly piled around them, and he was sitting upon one of the bedrolls while Jaskier perched upon the other. Even the fire still burned, a fresh pile of wood sitting nearby. 

He hummed, careful not to sound overly impressed, and turned his attention back to the bard. 

His care had been in vain. Jaskier sat straight at attention, puffed up and eager to hear the witcher’s judgment. Geralt sighed, and relented. 

“Well done,” he said, reaching for the pan of food. He saw his armor laid out to dry by the fire, and realized with some delay that he was not nearly as disgusting as one who’d been the victim of a rotfiend explosion ought to have been. Also the bard’s doing, he gathered. 

For all his posturing, Jaskier was an earnest and genuine companion. He admitted his wrongdoings freely when necessary, and he took fair stock of the world around him. Geralt was careful to not preen the man with too many compliments, as he placed an uncomfortable amount of value on what others thought of him, but he also could not help to be endeared to him. A weaker man would have fled, or fallen in the fight. A weaker man would have left him weeks, no, _months_ ago, but the poet remained by his side. To his own curiosity, Geralt noticed more things regarding the world in his travels with the bard than he had on his own. He was no fool, but it was true he was less socially capable than someone like Jaskier. There had been quite a few times when a tavern or town was more than ready to throw him out, and the poet’s silver tongue had served as his salvation. 

* * *

Geralt still remembered well a few months ago, when the frost of winter had just begun to nip at the heels of the autumn evenings. They had departed Oxenfurt with some difficulty, as Jaskier had been eager to revisit old companions and muses from his school days; this in turn meant that Geralt had spent an extra three days in the city, assisting the man in evading scorned lovers and bitter rivals alike. Their departure from the city had been delayed, and Geralt was irritated with the bard’s lack of understanding regarding the caliber of their winter travels. He rode on Roach in silence, letting the bard trail behind until they reached a fishing village along the Pontar. 

It had been early evening, but the river wind was bitter and unyielding. He’d dismounted Roach and was hitching her to a post when the tavern owner stepped out into the street. 

“None of yer kind here, Witcher. We’ll not be havin’ you drawin’ more drowners out the depths and into our roads.” 

He was a portly man, and spoke with more fear than prejudice. Geralt sighed and opened his mouth to refute the man, or barter, but was stopped before he could say a word. 

“My good man,” Jaskier’s voice rang out from behind him. “If it’s drowners terrorizing your fine village, then our Witcher won’t bring the fight _to_ you. He’ll lure them out, and rid you of their menace!” 

Geralt set his lips in a thin line. The attention that came from Jaskier’s ballads wasn’t entirely unfavorable, but he wasn’t in need of a spokesman. 

“Provided, of course, we get lodgings for the night,” Jaskier added swiftly, with a wink at the witcher and a smile at the innkeep. 

The man placed his hands on his hips in thought, lips pursed. A minute passed in silence, and Geralt tilted his head to the side to better hear the river in the distance. The current was steady, and the bulrushes whistled in the breeze, but among them all was a faint gurgling. 

“Well, alright,” said the innkeep. “Finish hitching yer horse and we’ll get ye a room and a meal. Come on in, we’ll discuss the drowners inside.” He waddled into the building, leaving the door open behind him. 

Jaskier laughed under his breath, and Geralt wheeled around to face him. 

“If I need your help, Jaskier, I’ll ask,” he warned. 

The bard’s grin didn’t falter. “And if you’re too bullheaded to ask, then I’ll offer.” 

Steaming bowls of stew were placed in front of them when they were seated, and the villagers that had turned to witness the garish bard and the hulking witcher were quickly urged to carry about their business by a tired-looking woman: the innkeeper’s wife. 

They sat and ate in silence, listening to the lamentations of the innkeep. Drowners had moved downriver to their village a week or so back, and their daughter had been down to the river to do the washing when she was attacked. 

“Drowned?” Geralt asked impassively. Beneath the table, Jaskier kicked his foot. 

The mother sighed. “No, thank the gods. But she is scarred. We took her to Oxenfurt for medicines, tonics and salves, but she wears the ordeal plain across her face.”

It was then Geralt noticed a young woman peering at them from behind a door in the back of the room. She wore a deep blue scarf across her face, so that only her eyes were visible. In them, he saw fear, yet she held his gaze with determination. 

The innkeeper continued his story, detailing the dangers and numbers of the drowners, but Geralt could only notice how Jaskier, upon seeing the woman in the doorway, missed his face with his spoon and succeeded in smearing the stew across his chin and neck. It was his turn to nudge the other man under the table. 

“ _Don’t_ ,” he whispered. 

“Don’t what?” asked the innkeeper’s wife.

He sighed. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the drowners.” 

“And I’ll stay here,” chimed Jaskier, flashing a sly smile to the girl. “Someone must bring in our belongings. Regale me with your successes soon, Geralt!” 

The bard pushed him towards the exit, and were it not for the swiftly setting sun, Geralt would have protested. Instead, he grabbed the bard’s hand and dragged him outside as well. 

“I won’t delay travel any more. If you’re not in the room at dawn, I’m leaving without you.”

Jaskier held his hands up in surrender. “You _wound_ me, Geralt. I’ll be there! You go have your adventure, I’ll have mine.” He flashed another winning smile and strode back inside. 

Geralt stood in the street a moment longer, shook his head, and stalked off to the riverside. 

What the innkeeper had described as twelve drowners turned out to be five, and the entire fight took no more than ten minutes. Once they were vanquished, Geralt collected them into a pile on the river’s edge. He threw some dried reeds upon them and lit them on fire, and when he was satisfied they were going to continue burning, he made his way back to the inn. 

Sure enough, Jaskier was nowhere to be seen. The innkeeper thanked him profusely, the villagers murmured their gratitudes, and Geralt retired early. 

At dawn Jaskier was standing by the horse looking tired, but pleased with himself. Geralt didn’t bother questioning him, and set off on Roach to leave the bard following on foot behind. After an hour or so, the man’s frustrations boiled over. 

“For fuck’s sake, Geralt, I didn’t bed her!” he called. He’d fallen behind a fair amount, sleeplessness and exhaustion taking a toll on his pace. Geralt halted Roach and waited. 

When Jaskier caught up to him, he said nothing, but offered a hand down to the bard. 

“I just–oh, thank you,” he said, hoisting himself up onto the saddle, “I just helped her write a sonnet.” 

“Is that what you’re calling it now?” 

“I’m serious,” yawned Jaskier. “Her affections were elsewhere.”

Geralt said nothing more, knowing the bard would explain himself anyway. 

“I spoke to her to hear her story. She explained was fearful that the object of her affections would no longer love her with the scars across her face. I arranged a meeting, drafted a sonnet, orchestrated a romance beneath the stars. The stuff of storybooks, and a lovely ballad in the future.” 

“Hm.” Geralt spurred Roach back into walking, keeping his eyes on the rising sun. He felt a sense of relief wash over him–probably just the joy of being back on the road, he reasoned. 

“And who was this mysterious beau,” he inquired with a snort. There was never an end to the stories this one was willing to spin. 

“Some fisherman’s daughter. Lara, her name was. Pretty redhead, it was a really sweet reunion. Not every day you get your own personal troubadour,” Jaskier mumbled. He leaned his forehead against the witcher’s back, groggy. 

Geralt hummed, chastened. “Sleep,” he said softly. “It’s a long road ahead.”

* * *

Geralt pondered over this previous adventure as he ate in silence. Jaskier kept writing in his book, only occasionally glancing over at the witcher. When he finished eating, Geralt placed the pan and spoon back by the fire and nudged the bard’s shoulder with his own. 

“So will you tell me how you conquered the beast?” he asked, voice measured. Far be it from him to keep the bard from telling the stories he so loved to gather. 

Jaskier all but slammed the book shut and hastily stuffed both it, the quill, and inkpot back in a knapsack. 

“Of course! I’m sure it isn’t every day that you’re asleep and miss a grand battle,” he said, eyes shining with delight. In the brief moment when he’d put away his belongings, Geralt noticed something he chided himself for not seeing before. 

“You’re hurt,” he said. He scanned the packs strewn around him until he settled upon a small, circular pouch. Jaskier had begun to protest, but sputtered to a halt when Geralt reached over and took his hand in both his own. 

“Burned. How?” he asked, digging in the pouch for a salve. Broadleaf plantain, beeswax, oil: good for burns. 

“I can’t tell you _now,_ it’ll ruin the whole story,” Jaskier whined. “It’s fine, really, I’ve been putting snow on it—”

“That makes burns worse,” Geralt grumbled. He fished in the pouch for a bandage, clean strips of linen he always had prepared. He worked nimbly, wrapping the bard’s hand with a delicate but sure touch. He fastened the dressing with a knot, letting his hand linger on Jaskier’s palm a moment longer. Guilt coiled uninvited in his throat, and he cleared it with a small cough. 

He put the bag off to the side, rolled his shoulders, and settled back down to the way he’d been laying before. He rested his head back upon Jaskier’s lap, and gazed upwards expectantly. It wasn’t often the bard looked at a loss for words, so he took the moment as a little victory.

“Well then,” he said, closing his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips. “Now you can tell me how you fought your very first rotfiend and won.” 

**Author's Note:**

> okay wow where to start.  
> THANK you all. i was not imagining such a warm welcome into writing and it's been such a positive reception. now that i've finished this i am going to go back and reply to everyone's comments. thank you thank you! please come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Loweryi) or [tumblr](https://futzingbarton.tumblr.com/) , i love talking with folks. If you want to find me anywhere else on the net, [ here's my card~! ](https://gossamerowl.carrd.co/)
> 
> [Here is a video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5QeAV2Bxzog) of me painting the series that these works will go along with in a zine, someday. [Here is a speedpaint ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SFqaHD677VM) of the one accompanying Dusk. 
> 
> Lastly, [ here is a 60 song playlist ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3LFNsUCiodwwXgJzl6DfHn?si=meNdq_cNQyahiBzYhVXHDA) for Geraskier feelings. It's got cute, it's got angst, I'm rather proud of it!


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